


Punch Drunk

by fabula_prima



Category: Warrior (2011)
Genre: Disabled Character, F/M, Military Backstory, Mixed Martial Arts, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Post-Prison, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs, getting real HELP, that there's the real wish fulfillment, we've got a grown man going to THERAPY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23058496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabula_prima/pseuds/fabula_prima
Summary: A year after nine months spent in prison, Tommy Conlon is trying to get his life in order. He's got an apartment, a steady schedule of fights, a therapist, and a hefty but manageable case of PTSD. Things are okay with his dad, increasingly better with his brother, and finally fitting together into some semblance of a life. No pills, very little booze, and a truly incredible service dog named Theo--all-in-all, a recipe for stability. What better moment for a stranger to roll into his life and--pardon the pun--knock him right out. Featuring an OC in a wheelchair.
Relationships: Tommy Conlon/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on Tumblr requested a bit of disability representation. As a woman in a wheelchair, I HAD to oblige. Physical disabilities vary hugely, of course, but for the sake of accuracy, I'll be pulling from a fair bit of personal experience (mechanics, interactions, and the like.) There will be potentially triggering incidents of ableism throughout (I'll tag them), but always with the intention of pointing them out and showing how to do better. If you have questions or concerns about this fic's disability representation, you can find me on Tumblr by this same name (without the underscore). I'd love to chat! Thanks for reading <3

Tommy Conlon liked to do laundry. Loved it, actually. Sorting through clothes, measuring out detergent, listening to the steady thwump of the washing machines. He folded clean lines into everything, even his ratty workout clothes, because it was ritual. And it soothed him. His apartment was nice enough, but it didn’t have laundry facilities. And though he had a hookup for it next to the bathroom, appliances were expensive and he enjoyed the routine of Sunday afternoons spent at the laundromat. “Routine is your best friend,” he learned in prison. He learned a lot of stupid things in prison, but that particular bit of advice was golden.

He wiggled his finger through a hole in the toe of one black sock, pointing at the dog by his side.“New socks. Gotta put that on the shopping list, bub.” It cocked its head this way and that, then huffed a little to confirm that he’d heard. Theo was Tommy’s constant companion–a German Shepherd, trained to work with veterans, who stood at attention like a little soldier himself. He took his job seriously, even if that job, at the moment, was standing guard at a laundromat in the middle of the day. When the tinkling bell above the door rang out, his ears twitched and he glanced over to take stock of the new visitor. His evaluation? Uninteresting and not a danger, though she smelled a bit like a dog. But he heard something off in Tommy’s voice as his owner dropped the shirt he’d been holding and rushed to the door.

* * *

Surely number three would be her lucky spot. A busted washing machine meant tracking down a laundromat that wasn’t frequented by absolute creeps. Wash-o-rama was the last option in her zip code. She wasn't sold on the name, nor on the general location, but as she passed by the windows with her laundry bag slung over her shoulder, she caught a sight inside that stopped her on the sidewalk. A man, facing the wall of machines, with shoulders wide enough to carry the weight of the world. Atlas incarnate in a Philly laundromat. Beside him, next to the folding table, stood a well-behaved dog whose eyes were trained on the spinning laundry. She could see his head bob steadily as he followed the circles, no doubt bored of his master’s task. It made a precious picture, until the man turned side-face and she caught his profile. He was handsome, as he smiled down at his dog. Distractingly handsome. Clean shaven and pouty-lipped, his soft face hardly matched the hard-bodied physique. 

_So she was attracted_ , she admitted to herself with a sigh. If she was tossing around phrases in her head like “pouty-lipped” and “hard-bodied physique,” she was already in trouble. Granted, a handsome stranger outranked the other laundromats’ creeps, but the guy looked like a guaranteed heartbreaker. And with her luck, he’d be painfully courteous to her while he looked on with pity. Regardless, she needed clean clothes. It was just crummy luck–or wonderful luck, depending on your outlook–that the only lowered table space was directly to his right. So she adjusted her bag on her shoulder, took a deep breath, and swung the door open.

* * *

He’d gone about holding the door open in the most awkward way possible–hand planted halfway across the width of it, shoving it open outwardly, as the woman tried her best to not run over his toes.

“Oh! Thanks so much!”

It was a casual, hyper-enthusiastic tone, but she didn’t meet his eyes, and he suspected it was a rote phrase for her. She looked tired, and he felt like he was part of what exhausted her.

“Sorry, probably coulda done that an easier way.” He huffed a laugh through his nose.

That was enough to get her to look up, and with her gaze came a polite smile. “Nah, you did just fine.”

She had _dimples_. He was a sucker for dimples. And warm, brown eyes. It distracted him so wholly that he forgot to step out of her way for a moment. He thought about offering to carry her bag, but she seemed able to manage, so he headed back to his laundry and his dog. To his delight, she situated herself next to him at the long table. With as much subtlety as he could manage, he snuck occasional glances her way, careful not to be caught staring. But she was cute and he was curious about the tattoo on the inside of her forearm. Trying to read the script, his eyes must have lingered a second too long and she caught him. She smiled, a bit awkwardly, as if to say _“can I help you with something?”_ He immediately felt like an asshole, creeping on a pretty girl. And then an even more awful possibility occurred to him–she probably thought he was staring at the wheelchair. He looked away and started shoving clothes in a washing machine. Wash, wait, dry, wait, and get the fuck out before making a bigger fool of himself.

“Fuck,” he muttered, realizing what he’d left at home.

“You okay?”

He turned on his heel at the sound of her voice. She looked so fucking sweet, concern on her face as she paused in her sorting to check on him.

“Yeah, left my detergent at home. Knew I was forgetting something.”

She emptied the rest of her clothes onto the table and reached to the bottom of her bag to pull out a little pouch of detergent pods. “I know, super bougie. But they’re portable! And I always bring extra. You’re welcome to them, if you don’t mind your clothes smelling flowery.”

He hesitated a moment, just for the excuse of seeing her smile, then snapped back to. “Yeah, thanks, you’re a life-saver.”

She laughed softly and he thought his heart might give out, seeing those dimples again. “You must take your laundry pretty seriously if some lended soap makes me a life-saver.”

 _Funny, too_. “Well I don’t have to use the shitty stuff in the dispenser over there, so I’m grateful.” They exchanged shy smiles, which gave him just a little bit of hope, so he let things go silent for a while. He glanced over occasionally to see her piling laundry into a machine or pulling a book out of her bag. She chewed at her lip as she read, widened her eyes, and frowned every so often and he had to stop himself from interrupting to ask what sort of book was so engaging. But in time her laundry finished and she tucked the story away.

His finished at the same time, so they ended up side-by-side. He cleared his throat and ventured. “Not seen you here before, first time?”

“Hm? Yeah, machine at home broke, so I’ve been shopping around for a spot that’s not too skeevy.”

He could feel his palms starting to sweat, which was unusual. And Theo was starting to whine. “How’s this place rank?”

“Safest-seeming, so far. But probably not my winner.” She pointed above the row of washing machines to the much higher row of dryers–clearly too high for her to reach comfortably. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

He took a minute to muster up some courage–a ridiculous resource to need when offering help to someone. But he was nervous for some reason, and he didn’t want to assume she needed the help even though he was suddenly _very_ certain that he’d do literally anything she asked of him. In the end, he framed it as reciprocity. “Y’know, I owe you for the soap, I can give you a hand if you like?”

She looked up at the line of dryers, then back to Tommy before nodding. “I appreciate it.”

He tried not to think much about the clothes in his hands, delightfully colorful as they were; all of his stuff was grey or black, or blue, on a rare occasion. The load was small enough that he managed most of it in one armful, but a few things slipped from his grasp, including a pair of delicate black panties that he reached for without thinking. He didn’t even hear her insisting he needn’t worry, that she’d grab them. Instead, he stood with them laced between his fingers, turning five different shades of red as she winced.

_“Aw geez–”  
_

_“Oh god–”_

Theo interrupted them by shoving his head under Tommy’s free hand and huffing as he demanded attention. It was just enough distraction to toss the underwear in the dryer and tend to the dog. “You okay? What the hell’s got into you, hm?” It wasn’t genuine concern, not yet. But the last time he’d seen his dog act like this was–

“I see the little vest there. Service dog?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, this is Theo. He’s being ridiculous at the moment.”

And he _was_. Acting like Tommy was having an episode. Then it dawned on him. He scratched at Theo’s ears and went through the calming procedure. “Hey bub, I’m fine. It’s all good.”

But when she spoke to check that he was alright, Theo started up again. “Everything okay?”

“I’m alright, he’s just really sensitive to breathing and heart rate. Pretty sure he thinks I’m having a panic attack.”

He saw her hand flinch like she might reach out to help, but she held back. “Those are just the worst, I used to get them often. Talking through them always helped me, is there anything I can do?”

He couldn’t tell whether to laugh or cry: his dog was flipping his lid because Tommy couldn’t handle having touched a pair of panties. “That’s just it, I’m not having a panic attack. I uh–” he cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the dog. “I get a little nervous around pretty girls, and Theo here’s a snitch.”

Silence hung heavy with that revelation. _Jesus fucking christ, Tommy, when did you start spouting lines?_ When he finally looked over at her, the blush was obvious and the dimples were back and he had to smother his own grin.

“He makes a good wingman, then?”

“Wha—no, this hasn’t really happened before.”

She hummed just before meeting his eyes. “Well, glad he called you out on it. I’d give him a pet if he wasn’t on duty.”

He was willing to make an exception, but she turned away from the machines before he could respond and went back to her book. He tried not to watch, tried to mind his own business, but it was hopeless. _He_ was hopeless. And on two miraculous occasions, he glanced over to see her looking his way. _Like a couple of dumb teenagers_ , he thought. And he _liked_ it. ‘Cause he didn’t really do this as a teenager, what with his mom, and the wrestling, and his general adolescent angst.

It wasn’t long before the dryers were buzzing and he was piling their respective loads of laundry onto the table. She got straight to folding–hummed as she worked–so he did the same in silence, to better listen.

“Some kinda gym rat?” she asked out of the blue. He made a curious sound, wondering what she was getting at, until she nodded towards his pile of clothes. “See an awful lot of workout gear, there.”

“Right…” Should he tell her about the fighting? Might freak her out. “Spend a lotta time at the gym. _Boxing_ gym, if that’s any better. None of that Crossfit shit.”

She paused in her folding and her face fell. “What’s wrong with Crossfit?”

 _Shit. Goddamn it, Tommy, you and your fucking foot in the mouth._ “Aw, no, I’m sorry, it’s fine, I just–”

He watched as her dimples reappeared and a bright little laugh shot out from her. “I’m fucking with you.”

“Oh…oh, you’re real funny, huh?” He couldn’t help laughing with her. “Making a guy feel like an asshole amuses you?”

He could watch her beam like this for the rest of his life. She was contagious. “Things were still tense from the panties, I thought it might help.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks. “Yeah, hey, I’m sorry about that. I’m, uh–”

“It’s alright, really. You helped me out today, and you weren’t condescending about it, so…you’re good in my book.”

He felt the full weight of that gratitude right up against his rib cage and it thrilled him. “So you think maybe this laundromat’s your winner?”

Contemplation written across her face, she looked up toward the dryers again. “These are still a problem.”

“Y’know…I’m here this time every Sunday…and it’s no trouble helping out, if–”

“But what if I show up and you’re nowhere to be found? I end up stuck at the mercy of some random creep who wants to touch my underwear?” The accusation was all bark, not a bit of bite, as she smirked up at him.

“Nah, I ain’t leaving you hangin’. Cross my heart.”

Five fiery seconds of eye contact followed–seemed like an eternity, made the air feel thinner in his lungs.

She started tucking her folded clothes back into the laundry bag. “Alright then. Wouldn’t mind seeing Theo again.”

The dog perked up at the sound of his name and Tommy perked up at the promise of another meeting with–

“Do I call you laundry detergent angel, or..?” _Another fucking line, who are you?_ But it was worth it for one more sight of those dimples.

“Meg.”

“Tommy.”

They parted ways and the rest of his Sunday passed with a pleasant sort of warm glow. Spring had settled into all the buds on the trees, and when he tossed a clean hoodie on later that evening, he was glad to find it smelled flowery.


	2. Chapter 2

Four more days before Sunday and absolutely no way to get in touch with the mysterious laundry man. No way to gauge if he was serious about meeting again, no way to casually search social media to find out anything about him.

No, no, this was _good_. This was not dating, and thus not the standard format of an awkward first date and an opportunity to overthink when the most appropriate time to text was. This was organic. Meg had always dreamt of more organic things. A life with a disability, after all, meant lots of planning and preparing and thinking ahead. Never mind full-blown spontaneity–she could rarely afford even a bit of wiggle room.

So this chance to just _see where things might go_ was…good.

And _infuriating_.

Made no less infuriating by what she judged to be a massive fucking canyon of disparity in playing fields. Self-deprecation aside, Meg was realistic about what she had to work with. Decently intelligent but hardworking enough to make up for any gaps. Attractive enough, in a conventional sense, to sometimes enjoy the privilege of being pretty. But the disability was an inconvenience when meeting new people, setting off all sorts of bells and whistles that weren’t strictly necessary. It frightened off most of the dating pool. The average joes and janes.

But this Tommy guy was above average…she sweat a little at just the thought. All broad and muscly, he was built like a passable audition for _Magic Mike_. Even in a sweatshirt, she could see the vague shape of muscles she’d once memorized for an anatomy class. And then as salt in the wound, he had a pretty face. Not a dopey jock expression like she might have expected, but bright eyes and a good strong nose and a mouth like some metaphor for carnal fruit. A fig, maybe.

“You’re waxing poetic about him, honey. The last time you did that–”

“I got my fucking heart broken, yeah, I remember.”

Her mother’s sigh crackled through the phone. “I was going to say you fell in love.”

“Right. Fell in love. _Then_ got my fucking heart broken.”

“Look, I’m not making any excuses for the ex-who-shall-not-be-named, but that broken heart was _not_ your fault. It was not your fault for falling in love, and it wasn’t naive of you. Neither of you knew he was so good at lying to himself.”

“Yeah, well, just because I’m trying to convey how unbelievably gorgeous this guy is doesn’t mean I’m picking out wedding china. I’m just trying to convey how _un-be-liev-ably gorgeous this guy is_ , ma. Like, not just cute by my subjective standards. This guy is objectively the eighth wonder of the world.”

Her mom laughed in that sing-song-y way Meg had inherited. “Then I fail to see the problem.”

“What business does he have flirting with me?”

“Oh, you mean an intelligent woman with an impressive career, a kind heart, and beauty to spare? Good lord, who knows?”

“You’re contractually obligated to say those things, you produced me.”

“Doesn’t make ‘em any less true. Now, go to _sleep_. Stop worrying until at least Saturday night, okay?”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

“I love you, punk.”

“Love you too.”

She pulled the phone from her cheek and made note of the call time–an hour and forty minutes. Shit, she really was worked up about this. And yet somehow, she’d forgotten to mention what was really throwing her off about this guy.

He was _nice_. And not in a condescending way, either. He was glad to help, but not overbearing about it. And she hadn’t seen even a flicker of pity on his face about the chair. He struck her as someone who’d lived around disability, maybe—they always tended to make better first impressions. Or perhaps he had a natural sensibility about it. Some people, to her great delight and relief, just _got_ it.

She hardly knew him. She needed to stop assuming things. But she also needed to do more laundry; so there was a practical excuse for meeting him again. And it wouldn’t hurt to try a bit of mascara. Wear a decent bra that hoisted her tits up properly. Brush her hair.

She double-checked her bag for detergent–smiling fondly at the memory of having helped him–patted her dog on the head, and left her apartment with more nerves than she cared to admit. After all, it was entirely possible that he wouldn’t show up. Maybe he was just a really convincing flirt. Maybe he’d given it all a second thought and decided to ghost her. These possibilities churned like acid in her gut as she drove, and she started planning how to make a convincing exit from the laundromat if he wasn’t there after all. Planning–she was always very good at planning. And this meeting was, by all accounts, only barely planned.

She rather resented how hard her heart thudded in her chest. She could feel herself flushing red from chest to cheeks as she ventured down the sidewalk, eyes straining beyond the reflection of the laundromat’s windows to see if he was there.

She saw the dog first. _Was any sight before him ever so relieving?_ She bit at the inside of her cheek as a new sort of giddy anxiety wracked through her. She didn’t mind this kind, so much, but took a minute to calm herself before entering. Tommy had his back to the windows, leaned against the folding table with his arms crossed. He’d opted for a thinner sweatshirt today and shoved the sleeves halfway up his arms by the looks of it. She considered the shape of him–a little hunched at the neck, under a heavy layer of muscle. Wide across the back and narrow at the waist. Shifting his weight from leg to leg as he…waited? Was he waiting for her? The notion settled warm and bubbly in her stomach, and she was just about to head for the door when Theo spun around and spotted her. Nudging his owner’s hand, he drew Tommy’s attention to her. He beamed. Not just a friendly nod of acknowledgement, but a wide smile that stretched his cheeks and crimped his eyes. That kind of open delight stole the breath straight out of her. How could she possibly think this man would stand her up or leave her wondering? Everything about him seemed steady and solid and full of warmth.

He all but jogged to open the door for her, this time with enough forethought to do so smoothly. And from his soft lips tumbled “there she is.”

She forgot. Everything. How to speak, how to blink properly, what she was supposed to do as he held the door open. There was a charm about him, so easy and sincere and disarming that she wanted to hug him, give him a great big bear hug of gratitude. Because ahead of attraction, and ahead of amusement, she simply _liked_ him. He had a good presence. And that was altogether more thrilling than anything that had happened to Meg in a good long while.

* * *

She actually showed up. And she looked even better than he remembered. This was good, this meant he had a chance. Things were going alright for Tommy these days. After lock-up and some therapy, he was figuring it out; figuring out where his anger came from, why he liked fighting in the first place, and how to let go of old hurts that weren’t serving him anymore. He was resistant at first–rage was an easy, infinite motivator, and without it, he wasn’t sure he had any fight left in him. But it turned out that underneath it all, he really did like it for the physical skill it required of him. He liked the challenge and the performance of it all. Rage wasn’t the only thing feeding him, so he called upon it less and less. He was clearer in the head than he’d been in a long time. So maybe that’s why he processed the previous Sunday with such ease–he liked Meg. Liked her a lot. Felt a little thrill whenever he thought about her. It all scared the shit out of him, of course. With the exception of a two-week sweetheart out West, he’d never dated or pursued anyone. He had no experience, no idea what to expect, and no reason to think that this woman he’d met for all of two hours would give him a second look. But this might be worth it. For this, he was gonna try.

“Theo’s gonna be glad to see you!”

_But fuck, he was gonna do it like a coward, wasn’t he?_

“I didn’t scare him off last time?”

He scratched the back of his neck–a nervous habit. “Nope, think he likes you an awful lot, actually.”

She tossed her bag on the folding table and watched as Theo restrained himself from being anything but a sensible working dog. So Tommy decided to have mercy.

“Alright, bub, smoke break.”

“Smoke break?”

She smiled as she asked, and with it came those dimples, and _fuck_ , his heart rate spiked. “He’s not allowed pets when he’s on duty, so when the vest comes off, out in public, it’s like his–”

“Smoke break,” she finished, with a nod. “Very clever.”

He watched as his dog sniffed at her chair and wondered idly if he’d been trained to help out people in wheelchairs, too. But as soon as she started scratching between his ears, he transformed into an absolute goof of a puppy. His eyes squinted shut, his mouth hung open, and he turned to look at Tommy as if to say, “ _this is the good shit._ ”

He envied the dog, as Meg cooed over him and called him handsome.

“Cooper’s gonna be so jealous.”

 _Ah, shit, he didn’t even think to ask if she was single._ No ring to be seen, but she probably had some great boyfriend without any of the baggage Tommy lugged around.

“Cooper?” He tried not to sound too disappointed.

“My dog. Not nearly as well-behaved as your guy here, but just as fond of head scratches. He gets jealous when I get to meet a new puppy.”

 _Her dog. Thank fucking christ._ “Service dog?”

She gave him a harsh look. “Y’know, people in wheelchairs can just have pets.”

“Ah fuck, of course. I’m sorry, I’m really good at sticking my foot in my mouth.”

And then a little miracle: she touched her fingertips to the back of his hand, where he had propped himself up against the table. “Hey, just messing with you again.”

It was an electric touch. He’d heard people say that before, but didn’t really know what it meant, never felt anything like it. He’d taken hits to the face that felt like thunder, and known the burning trail of nails dragged down his back, but this was something else entirely. Not a shock, like lightning. It was static–a humming, fizzling kind of warmth. He felt liked he’d missed some sort of opportunity when she pulled away, and he struggled to grip onto whatever she’d just said.

“You okay?” she asked, seeming a million miles away. _How long had he stood in silence staring at her red-lacquered nails?_

He chewed at his lip for a second–he could fess up right now. Tell her he wasn’t okay ‘cause he hadn’t managed to ask her out yet. Or he could brush it off, move on to starting his laundry.

He went with the latter. They fell into an amiable silence, each of them filling washing machines and trying to stay out of each other’s way. He was about to kick his own ass for being such a coward when she piped up.

“So besides laundry and gym time, what do you do for a living?”

_Right. How to make this palatable…_

“I fight.” _And that wasn’t the way._

“Like, you fight people?”

“Professionally. Mixed martial arts, it’s uh…well it’s a sport, I guess you’d say.”

“I’ve heard of that, I think. Boxing and wrestling and jiu-jitsu and all that, right?”

He breathed a little easier. “That’s the bulk of it, yeah.”

“How’s a guy get into that in the first place?”

Weighing his options, he veered away from the military desertion story for now. “Started wrestling when I was a kid. Took a break when I was in the Marine Corps, then got back to it.”

“Soldier, too…you just got a lotta fight in you, or what?”

She was getting dangerously close to reading him like a book, but he found he didn’t mind–provided she didn’t read anything she disliked. “Used to. Less and less, these days.

“Bet you’re a force to be reckoned with anyway.” He glanced over to see her eyes skating up and down. Checking him out? He smiled to himself as subtly as he could manage.

“I do alright.” The momentary flex of his arms was genuinely unconscious.

 _Jesus fuck_ , she was blushing. Blushing and smiling with those dimples and he felt a primitive desire to show her precisely what he was capable of. Instead, he diverted.

“What about you? What do you do?

With the attention on her, she looked a little anxious, rubbing at her arms and picking at her nails. “Nonprofit work. With the Institute on Disabilities. Mostly a grant writer these days.”

And just like that, he questioned his entire plan. What the fuck would someone like her, someone actively making the world better and brighter, want with an ex-con who beats people up for a living?

“Gotta admit, I know next to nothing about that. But it _sounds_ really impressive.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear and checked the time on her laundry–idle things to keep her busy. He knew that impulse, almost wanted to reach out and offering a calming touch. “It’s fulfilling, which makes all the difference.”

“What do you like best about it?”

She stopped in her mindless movements and looked at him, locked straight onto his eyes. “I’ve known a lot of needless struggle, y’know? And being able to save other people from that…being the person that I wish I’d had helping me. It feels good.”

God, that was a good answer. She was a good person. And she had gorgeous eyes when she talked like this. Dark, but brilliant. And the way she spoke…like she was letting him in on a secret, sharing something intimate. He spent the rest of the laundry time asking her questions–eager to learn about her, but also eager to just hear. To watch her talk with her hands and make all sorts of faces and bring stories to life.

When everything was dried and neatly folded and packed away, he still hadn’t had enough of her. She was saying her goodbyes, asking if they might do this again next weekend, but he wasn’t ready to part ways yet. He panicked. Went rogue.

“How do you feel about pie?”

“Pie? I, uh…I feel pretty good about it. If it’s good.”

“I know a place, just a couple blocks down if–”

“Cherry?”

A grin stretched so far across his face it almost hurt. “Cherry’s their best.”


End file.
